


Makeshift

by explicitones



Series: Patience is the art of hoping [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Friends to Lovers, Haikyuu!! Manga Spoilers, M/M, Misunderstandings, Romance, Silly Boys, it's complicated - Freeform, oihina blink and you'll miss it, time skip
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:08:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27094780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/explicitones/pseuds/explicitones
Summary: And he’s not supposed to feel proud, or possessive for that matter, but it’s that same instinctive feeling from watching Kageyama on television, subdued claims of ‘I discovered him first’ and ‘he used to set for me’ filling his thoughts.In which Hinata learns the balance between spiking and receiving, and re-discovers his affinity for boys who can toss. Companion piece toWait, Wait,but can be read as a standalone.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio, Hinata Shouyou/Oikawa Tooru
Series: Patience is the art of hoping [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1975891
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28





	Makeshift

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and thank you for reading :) Please note, there will be spoilers up to 402, so read at your own risk. This is the companion to [Wait, Wait](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25491334/chapters/61837807), told from Hinata’s POV. Both fics can be read on their own, but you may find some parallels drawn here that become more meaningful after reading the first. Please enjoy~

Hinata’s first month in Brazil is an unfurled mess of yearning and loneliness, trapped between late night deliveries and a roommate he can’t hold a conversation with. He spends his days on the beach, getting used to the weight of the sand, and the unpredictability that is the wind, trialing new footing and learning the width of the court. He wonders when it’ll stop feeling like one step forward, two steps back.

It’s not at all like the training camps they had in Tokyo during summer vacation, some gentle reprieve from long, hot days doing nothing. Rio de Janeiro is a sun-kissed portrait of sweeping cityscape and the South Atlantic, it’s warm and breezy, like an endless summer. It gives him no reason to dislike being here, but here it is. He misses his mom’s voice in the mornings, waking him up for the day, and _nabe_ for dinner on a cool fall night. He misses the vast greenery and winding roads, the distant hills of Miyagi. He misses home. 

On Friday evenings he calls his parents, and chats with Natsu, who still cries sometimes. She confides in him about her school life, her first crush—the argument she had with Kaa-chan the day before—and it makes Hinata miss home all the more. 

“Sho-nii,” she says one night, over a staticy line, “Will you be home for the holidays?”

He already knows the answer, he thinks Natsu knows the answer too but it’s a question that bears asking. Before leaving, Hinata had set expectations—with his family, his friends—this was a temporary trip, a relocation with an end-date which meant time was of the essence. He spends that time training when he isn’t working, learning bits of Portugese like how he learned new kanji in elementary school (if it's anything like that, he'll never get to reading the local paper), immersing in a life away from home. 

“I can’t this year,” he replies, imagining the way Natsu’s face might fall, blinking back tears in an effort to be brave. 

“Okay,” she whispers, barely a sound over the connection. “I miss you.”

He sighs, rubbing at a sore spot on his forehead, where he’d taken a ball to earlier that day (receiving is decidedly harder than spiking). “Me too,” he says, leaning into the palm of his hand, where he can’t see his barren room, boxes stacked neatly in a corner, still unpacked. 

When he hangs up the call, Hinata trudges over and begrudgingly begins the task. All the boxes are labeled _Bedroom_ , which in hindsight, Hinata thinks, is kind of dumb.

**+++**

He looks at his mobile wallpaper sometimes. During a shift, between deliveries—inevitable when checking the time, ensuring a customer’s pizza arrives within the promised window. He’s tried to change it a half a dozen times, to a photo he snapped of Flamengo beach at sunset, or the _Cristo Redentor_ , a towering backdrop against his 172 cm. It doesn’t stick. 

His current wallpaper is a photo of his friends as third-years, Kageyama, Yachi, Yamaguchi, Tsukishima and himself, their closeness captured on screen. It’s an earned closeness, Hinata knows, it took time—three years exactly—and a score of matches, losses, wins, celebrations, and seasons. He looks at the photo and wonders how long before they lose touch, when regular texts become weekly, monthly, yearly, until it’s just special occasions, if that. He’s overheard his parents gossip about their old friends during the holidays, and it’s the only time of the year they do. 

His last conversation with Kageyama was three days ago, half asleep in the middle of the night—Kageyama’s afternoon—texting a string of emojis and encouragement, congratulating him on the Adlers’ latest win. Before that, they’d tried video calling, Hinata pointedly ignoring the distance between them in favor of troubleshooting a buffering connection. Kageyama had looked blurry, or bleary—it was four in the morning in Japan—and Hinata had to leave for work soon. Neither of them would admit (again) how much they missed each other. But for all that Kageyama lacks emotional tact or empathy for that matter, Hinata had known he understood. When Kageyama had moved to Tokyo, he’d spent consecutive weeks exchanging sofa listings with Hinata, the two of them curating a list of furniture catalogs that ranged from antique to modern. In the end, he’d picked the teal mid-century that Hinata had recommended at the start.

These days Kageyama is busier, traveling from city to city to play some other team’s home game, living out of a suitcase and hotel rooms. The matches are uploaded the following day, sometimes by fans, other times by an official sponsor, always with Kageyama framed neatly in 1080p, a recurring theme. Hinata pockets his phone, _Bon Appetit_ bag warm and heavy on his back, and hops on his bike with quiet resignation—reminds himself it was his choice to come here, and there’s still more to do. 

**+++**

He bumps into Oikawa just two days shy of a full month in Brazil. In all honesty, Hinata’s not in the best of moods—just hours before, he had lost his wallet, the one Natsu had gifted him. Despite throwing his all into a game of beach volleyball, he’s on edge, on the verge of tears if not for the gratifying moments when he connects with the ball, rallying with his teammates across a language barrier. It’s a quarter to nine and he’s enjoying a score for their rag-tag team, fresh on the realization that sand can be forgiving too, when he hears the exclamation in Japanese. 

They’re both surprised by the encounter—halfway across the world, Hinata is certain neither of them expected to see a familiar face. 

“What are you doing here Gr—Oikawa-san?” 

“That’s my line,” Oikawa states, brightly amused. 

“I’m here to train with beach volleyball,” Hinata explains, leaning into the conversation. It’s amazing how refreshing it is to speak Japanese with someone face-to-face again. It’s crisp and clear, consistently loading in real time. 

Oikawa is playing for the Argentinian league, Hinata learns, which is nothing short of amazing. In his first year of high school, Aoba Johsai had been the team to beat after Karasuno’s crushing defeat during the Interhigh preliminaries. Oikawa without a doubt had been the star, a centrifugal force propelling his team forward, but Hinata knows a thing or two about loss, and three years without making it to nationals must have been a hard burden to bear. 

On instinct, Hinata asks for a game. He’s spent his volleyball career thus far vying for Kageyama’s tosses, but there’d been a handful of times (Interhigh prelims, the first Tokyo training camp, and post-match Inarizaki) when Hinata had wondered what it was like to spike a rival setter’s toss. For whatever reason, Hinata is drawn to them like a moth to a flame, and he's not sure if that's because of how Kageyama set the stage, or something inherent in his genetic makeup. It’s a problem, anyhow, if he’s going to spend the _rest_ of his volleyball career just chasing tosses for the sharp sting of a ball against his palm. Especially now, with Oikawa here, so achingly familiar, and what they share in common—a former teammate with exceeding talent—Hinata wants it more than ever.

“I was actually on my way to dinner,” Oikawa tells him, “why don't you take me someplace good?”

They make small talk on the way to the restaurant, trading travel stories and selfies. The photo he texts to Kageyama is viewed within minutes, and a short moment later it’s replied to with an _Ushijima-san sends his regards_. And if Hinata didn’t know better, he’d have taken it for a sincere stab at conversation. When he shows the text to Oikawa, he notes it is decidedly _not_ , judging by the furrowed eyebrows and exaggerated pout. 

“They’re conspiring against me!” Oikawa gripes, moving his hands with animated gusto. “Good riddance, am I right?”

Hinata chuckles, keeping his opinion to himself. Oikawa is a beaming reminder of life back home, of a tall setter with dark hair and a love of volleyball. There’s no discarding that. 

“Anyway Chibi-chan, er, Shoyo, if I may,” another gesture of his hand, “Let’s fill up and then we can play a game after.”

“Osu!” 

Admittedly, Oikawa without Kageyama and their persistent rivalry is pretty fun, all casual confidence and quick wit, with none of the pettiness that Hinata recalls from the court. There’s also a sullenness to him, Hinata notes, that suggests he must be lonely too. Even with his social charm and bewitching smile, a marked ability to win people over, Oikawa is just as far away from home.

After, the sand newly familiar between his toes, and the wisp of the ocean breeze in his hair, Hinata tells him, “Today, for one second—just one second—I was really depressed, but. After meeting you, I’m feeling way, way better!” 

Oikawa grins at him, somewhere between smug and sincere. “Then treat me to dinner next time.”

There’s an inexplicable moment there, Hinata notes, some thread of existence between them, unraveling. Then someone shouts, “Jackie Chan!” less-than-tasteful, and it’s broken. “Wanna play?” 

Hinata accepts the challenge on their behalf, and for the next forty-five minutes, all the tosses are his. 

**+++**

He celebrates the New Year with Pedro, catching distant fireworks from their apartment on the third floor. His roommate had come around eventually, bonding over a shared interest in _One Piece_. Pedro helps him with his Portugese and they watch dubbed episodes of _Naruto_ and _My Hero Academia_ on the weekends. It starts to feel more like he belongs. 

Japan is already in the new year, twelve hours ahead. Hinata wakes to a flurry of texts and group threads, welcoming him to 2016. A year ago he’d celebrated with Kageyama and Yachi—the only third-years who’d stayed in town for the holidays. Yamaguchi’s family was in Okinawa and Tsukishima had gone to Tokyo. On the second, they’d played a game of 2v2 with Daichi and Suga, while Yachi kept score, catching glimpses of adult life and not wanting any part in it.

Hinata remembers the lot of them going to the shrine to get their fortunes read, bickering half-heartedly with Kageyama over whose was better, and stopping by Coach Ukai’s market after for curry buns. It had snowed in the morning and he could see his breath, whisper-thin in the air. Huddled close beneath the shop’s awning, the two of them remained while the rest had called it a day. 

_“I’m meeting with the Adlers next month,”_ Kageyama had told him then, gaze trained on the cement. Spring Interhigh was in a week and there was enough anxiety about that, let alone anything about the future of their volleyball careers.

_“Have you settled on a team?”_ Kageyama asked then, _“It’s our last term.”_

Hinata had shrugged, a half coherent answer on his tongue. They’d spent the last two years pointedly ignoring all the changes, people coming and going, and now it was their turn. He needed more time. It wasn’t that they’d planned on joining together—none of the teams that recruited them had contacted the other, anyway—but a tiny part of him had expected a longer conversation about it. _“I don’t know,”_ he’d finally replied, shuffling into Kageyama’s space in search of warmth. And Kageyama had tucked him beneath his chin, pressing cold lips to the top of his head that was just on the verge of comforting. 

His phone chimes, the familiar tune to an incoming video call. It’s Tanaka, who comes into focus against a fluorescent backdrop, illuminating the snowy street behind him. He exclaims, “Happy New Year, Hinata!!” and tilts his phone so that someone else comes into view. It’s Shimizu-san, wearing a bright red scarf that covers the bottom half of her face. She waves, greeting him with a muffled, “Happy New Year, Hinata.”

“Tanaka senpai! Shimizu-san!” Hinata chirps, leaning into his phone. “It’s so good to see you!”

“Kageyama suggested this might be a good time to call. Kiyoko and I wanted to wish you a Happy New Year, _and..._ extend an invitation to our wedding, we're engaged!”

Hinata catches a glimpse of his own video on the screen, soft surprise and the beginnings of a grin. “Wow! Congratulations, you two!! Thank you for the invitation! You can bet I'll try to attend, when will it be?”

“Great, Hinata! We're planning it for next Spring. Text us your address, yeah? We’ll mail you a formal invite later this year.”

“Of course! And Happy New Year, how are things??”

“We just got back from a game of volleyball with the guys. Kageyama’s in top form, man, you talk to him lately?”

“Maybe a little over a week ago, his birthday,” Hinata supplies, just as his phone beeps with another call. “Ah! Actually, I think that’s him.”

“Alright man, I’ll catch you later. Looking forward to seeing you again Hinata!”

“You as well, Tanaka-senpai. Congrats again you two!!”

Hinata takes a brief moment, chuckling indulgently at the sight of Kageyama’s profile picture—a less than flattering photo he’d snapped back in their second year, when he’d been experimenting with photography. He might’ve titled it _Sunday Morning_ and filed it into a private album; Kageyama is glaring into the lens, more bedhead than boy, and Hinata can still hear him snap, “ _Hinata-boke— Get that out of my face and go back to bed!”_

“Kageyama, hi,” he greets, balancing his phone up against the lamp on his nightstand. 

“Hinata,” Kageyama replies, looking his usual awkward self. Hinata gives him a chance to warm up, the first couple of minutes are always like this. 

“Happy New Year,” Hinata finally offers, “How’ve you been?”

“U-uh yeah,” Kageyama replies, as if remembering the purpose of his call, “Happy New Year. I’m in Miyagi.”

“I heard,” Hinata says, “Just got off the phone with Tanaka-san—I hear he and Shimizu-san are tying the knot.”

Kageyama nods on the other end, appearing contemplative. “I didn’t know they were together.”

Hinata rolls his eyes, of course Kageyama hadn’t realized. He’d barely been aware of Hinata—and that was when they were sleeping together—a half-baked attraction with no verdict. 

“Even _I_ knew they were dating, Kageyama,” he scolds, only half serious. “You need to be more observant off the court.” 

Kageyama grunts, and must be considering it. He doesn’t follow up with his usual insults. “Hinata,” he says, and when Hinata looks at the phone screen, Kageyama is staring back at him, face set with a hard scowl, furrowed brows. 

“What.” 

“I’m…” Kageyama starts to say, “I—”

“—You’re cutting out,” Hinata jokes, tamping down the feeling of unease in his chest. 

“Shut up,” Kageyama mutters, seemingly abandoning the sentence altogether. 

Hinata thinks he knows—he’s halfway across the world and he feels it too. It’s a terrible, unwarranted feeling, it churns in his stomach and makes him queasy. It’s knowing he can’t just ride the _shinkansen_ to Tokyo on a Friday afternoon, and be there a couple hours later. It’s remembering the metro lines to the outskirts of the city, and the distance from the nearest station to Kageyama’s studio. It’s the realization that it’s not an option right now. 

“Yeah,” he finally says, “me too.”

Kageyama frowns and for a moment Hinata thinks he might protest, or correct him like he usually does. He watches Kageyama worry at his lower lip and lifts a hand out of habit—curls it into a fist and brings it back down onto his lap. 

“I’m on the starting lineup for Japan this year,” Kageyama mumbles, “we’ll be entering the qualifiers soon, for the Olympics.”

“Woah,” Hinata hums, a jolt of pride and something else coursing through him. “Good, alright. You know, Kageyama, this just makes me want to beat you all the more!”

Kageyama’s laugh is foreign to his ears, distorted slightly by the data compression and jitter—nevermind a rare happenstance in and of itself—but hearing it is a relief Hinata didn’t know he needed. 

“Sure,” Kageyama says, a little shaky, maybe another byproduct of poor telephony, “You’ll have to come back to Japan for that.” 

**+++**

The next time he meets Oikawa, it’s in the middle of March. Rio is a smothering heat, even after the last bout of rain, which had lasted nearly a week. They’d exchanged numbers and a string of texts since their last meeting, and by now it feels like a regular occurrence—if two times could be considered regular. 

Oikawa says, “Shoyo, did you grow a little since the last time I saw you?” 

“It’s my presence, Oika-senpai, my presence!”

They play Gabriel and Gino again, and win this time. The sand is still wet in places, and despite the wind, Oikawa’s tosses have gotten, if possible, even more precise. Between the two of them, they take turns playing different positions; the novelty of variation is perhaps even more thrilling than a spike.

Dinner afterwards is a merry occasion, and despite turning down the original offer for drinks, they still have a couple beers with their food. 

“You’re not twenty yet, are you Shoyo?” Oikawa teases, and Hinata smiles, loose and a little tipsy, leaning into Oikawa’s space. “The legal drinking age here is eighteen, Dai Ousama.” 

He watches Oikawa snicker behind his hand, eyes bright with amusement, feels the press of Oikawa’s thigh against his. “You’re fun Shoyo, I mean of course, you are, Tobio-chan was just sandbagging everything, wasn’t he?”

When he’s walking Oikawa back to his hotel, Hinata asks, “Say, Oikawa-san? What is it about Kageyama that you dislike?”

“Pff, his attitude,” Oikawa laughs, almost immediate. “Well, I don’t dislike him _entirely._ Despite being naturally gifted, he’s grounded, and perpetually trying to improve himself—which is _annoying_ but admirable, I suppose...maybe.”

Hinata nods along, understanding entirely.

“Well let me ask you this, then, why do you like Tobio, Shoyo?” Oikawa inquires, soft and pointed, a little knowing. They’ve arrived at the hotel now, and Hinata is uncharacteristically attuned to the way the moonlight reflects in Oikawa’s eyes. 

He says the safest thing that pops into his head, “He gives me tosses.” 

Oikawa is close, maybe they’d shifted, or Hinata had naturally gravitated towards him. He tuts, “What? Better than mine?” It’s mostly in jest, Hinata knows, but the lazy grin that accompanies it, heated gaze behind half-lidded eyes, sends a shiver down his spine. 

“Oikawa-san?” he utters, when the older man pulls him closer still, hands large and warm on his shoulders, engulfing him in a hug. His lips ghost Hinata’s temple, soft breath fanning over his cheek. “That can’t be the only reason.”

Then Oikawa is out of his space, watching him with an amused expression. “Take care of yourself, Chibi-chan,” he says, hand outstretched, “ _Shoyo_ ,” and it sounds fond. 

**+++**

Hinata takes up strength training, trading off sets at the gym with some of Lucio’s students, and getting his form checked. Despite what anyone says, he detests deadlifts. Coach Ukai and Takeda-sensei had always stressed the importance of nourishing the body too, while training hard. At the cusp of sixteen, he hadn’t thought much about it (those were things Kageyama was better about)—he ate what looked or tasted good, and even that was a hassle to keep up in the midst of a crucial training period, striving hard to hit the mark. It wasn’t until their match with Kamomedai, and that devastating loss that he thought twice about his nutrition. 

These days, he heeds that timeless advice, eating healthy meals of lean meats and vegetables, and forgoing the junk. He’s not a huge fan of spinach, but it blends nicely into his protein shakes. And on Saturdays, there’s still room for a hot bowl of _gohan_ , and more importantly, the egg he cracks in it has six grams of protein. 

At one point he passes himself in the mirror and double-takes at his reflection. There’s bulk where there used to be skin and bones, definition in his chest and calves (more a testament to the miles he's biked than his training in the gym). He’ll never be _tall_ but he’s no longer scrawny. 

At the start of the second term of their last year, the volleyball club had done a routine height check. Hinata had grown another few centimeters, breaking 171, and so had Kageyama—marking him at 188 and change. _“Not fair!”_ Hinata had complained, glaring half-heartedly at Kageyama who had seemed unaffected. The setter had shrugged, pointing at a lower set of marks on the wall from when they were first years. _“You were playing at 164 centimeters before,”_ entirely honest and sugar-free. _“Oh?”_ Tsukishima had said, goading, _“Is the king being supportive?”_

In the last week of May, Kageyama calls him. He opens with, “Japan is going to the Olympics.” It’s five am, and Hinata is quiet for a beat too long, blinking into consciousness. He attempts to make a mental model of his work schedule, availability, and the Olympics run. Finally, he responds, “Wow! Congrats Kageyama, let’s meet up in Rio! _”_ to which Kageyama says, “I can get you tickets.”

Hinata worries at his lower lip, forming a suitable reply in his head. When he’s not delivering at his part-time job, he’s helping teach volleyball—his days are perpetually filling with more and more partner requests, one-off matches with a roundtable of players, and Kenma’s still sponsoring him to play. Last week, he’d heard the nickname _Ninja Shoyo_ for the first time, an endearment coined by beach locals—regulars who’d seen him play day after day, and watched him grow. Beach volleyball is practically a different sport from indoor volleyball, if not for the familiar plays, and he’s not sure he’s ready for those two worlds to merge. 

“Don’t worry about me!” he chimes, “Get them for your media-inspired girlfriend and make your publicist proud.”

Kageyama grunts, somewhere between confusion and annoyance. “Ao-san already pre-ordered tickets though.” 

Hinata rolls his eyes, leave it to Kageyama to take the joke literally. Though if he’s being fair, Kageyama has a hard enough time interpreting tone in person, let alone over the phone. Sighing, Hinata forgoes the explanation and replies, “Nevermind Kageyama. I can get tickets for a couple games, so don’t worry about it. Let me know the dates you’ll be in town.” 

**+++**

In June, Hinata turns twenty, a fairly unremarkable occasion now that he’s been able to drink for the past year. 

At exactly twelve am, he gets a call from Yachi who’d been, all week, the exact opposite of subtle in wishing him a happy birthday. 

“Hinata-kun!” she chimes, overly cheerful in the habitual way she tries to hide her nerves. “I’m with Kageyama in Tokyo, we wanted to wish you a Happy Birthday!” Yachi flips her camera to bring Kageyama into frame; he’s wearing a blue and black plaid shirt over a white tee and Hinata racks his brain for the last time he saw Kageyama out of his sports gear. The only thing that comes to mind is that shade of blue matches Kageyama’s eyes. 

“Happy birthday Hinata,” Kageyama says, lips quirking in a small smile. 

“Thanks, you two,” he replies, settling back against the bed and propping himself up with a couple pillows. “How’s Tokyo, Yachi?”

There’s a rustling, and then Yamaguchi and Tsukishima appear on screen as well, squeezing in beside Kageyama, who looks less than enthused. 

“Shoyo!” Yamaguchi calls, “Happy Birthday!”

“Happy Birthday,” Tsukishima intones, elbowing Kageyama a little in the process.

“Thanks! Woah, you’re all in Tokyo?”

“Kageyama had a game,” Yachi’s voice explains from off-screen, “We came for the day.”

“How’re things in Brazil?” Yamaguchi asks. 

“Great!” Hinata chirps, “I’m playing a game tonight, and then a few of us are getting dinner and drinks. What’re you guys up to?”

“We’re about to head to lunch,” Yachi answers. He hears the rustle of the phone being handled and then Yachi has switched herself back into view, turning to get the others in the background. Hinata stifles a laugh; she’s significantly shorter than the rest so even with her arms outstretched, the camera cuts them all off above the nose. He takes a screenshot for the keepsake.

“We’ll let you get your rest then, Hinata-kun, I know it’s late. Happy birthday, let’s talk soon!” There’s a chorus of goodbyes from behind her, varying levels of deadpan to upbeat, which incites a surge of warmth through Hinata’s chest. 

“Thanks everyone!!”

He waits for the blip of the call ending before tapping out of the application and loading up recent screenshots. Twenty in Brazil is decidedly not that different from nineteen in Japan, Hinata thinks, and proceeds to change his phone’s wallpaper. 

**+++**

Kageyama flies in on a Tuesday afternoon, a few days before the Olympics. Rio is its usual shade of green, vibrant and welcoming to the influx of visitors here for the event. He meets Kageyama for dinner after the opening ceremonies—Japan men’s volleyball team is playing tomorrow so they’re given the day to rest and mentally prepare for the next two weeks. Hinata is secretly impressed by how well Kageyama is holding up; he’s awfully zen for what he’s about to do—participate in a globally broadcasted event where every mistake, misstep and failure is immortalized on television, forever.

“You’re being dramatic,” Kageyama snips, digging his spoon, a little forcefully, into the pork stew he’d ordered for dinner. 

“Well, anyway, that’s why you’re the one playing for Japan,” Hinata replies, and doesn’t mean for it to come out sounding bitter, like there’s a second half to that sentence. There isn’t. 

Kageyama says, “You have to be playing in Japan to be considered for the national team, dumbass.”

“Oh shut up, that’s not what I meant,” Hinata mutters, shoving a sliced plantain into his mouth. “I think it’s cool, anyway, how calm you are in the face of pressure. I always admired that back in Karasuno.”

Kageyama nods, burying his face in his bowl with a mumbled, “Thanks.” Hinata watches him stir his stew, tapping absentmindedly at the tabletop with his other hand. His hair falls into his eyes, despite his recent efforts, and while the sight of Kageyama’s forehead is still something that Hinata’s getting used to, his mannerisms are still the same.

“You _are_ nervous, aren’t you?” Hinata asks, hiding his amusement behind a roll of bread. “You’ll be fine,” he says in reply to the silent answer, “winning is a comfort, not a necessity.”

“Tell that to Japan,” Kageyama snorts, but he’s noticeably less tense, straightening from his hunched position. “You’re coming tomorrow?” he asks, a hint uncertain and gaze averted, still.

“Yeess,” Hinata says, dragging out the syllable, “I told you, I’ll be there.” He peeks at Kageyama who’s finally looking up at him, staring at him with an unreadable expression.  
  
“I’m sorry I can’t make more games,” Hinata says, “It was tough to get off work, especially with how busy it’s going to be. It’s all hands on deck…”

“I know,” Kageyama says, nodding. “We can catch up after.”

“That’s right!” Hinata exclaims, brightening at the reminder, “I already took a couple days off then, it’s been in the books since May. We’ll catch up, I’ll show you around, we’ll play volleyball.” 

Kageyama smiles at this, a soft tilt of his lips, subtle in his approval. “Yeah,” he says, “that sounds good.”

**+++**

The men’s team loses to Italy in the quarterfinals—a bittersweet ending to a more than satisfying run. Hinata had caught the highlights, following the game from pub to patron along _Av. Mem de Sá_. When the announcers finally clued in on Kageyama, mid-game, Hinata couldn't help but feel a surge of pride. 

Kageyama finds him a few days later, closing out his last order and wrapping for the day. He looks good standing outside the _Bon appetit_ shop, illuminated by the warmth of the afternoon sun, turning his hair a dark shade of navy. “Hey,” Hinata calls, shouldering his backpack with one strap and skipping the bottom step of the storefront in his hurry. “Come on, let’s head to the beach.”

They claim a net on the far side of the bend, where it’s less crowded and closer to the tide. He’d been stopped at least half a dozen times to _‘introduce_ _your tall Japanese friend,’_ Kageyama’s presence, a personal invitation to curiosity. And he’s not supposed to feel proud, or possessive for that matter, but it’s that same instinctive feeling from watching Kageyama on television, subdued claims of _I discovered him first_ and _he used to set for me_ filling his thoughts. 

Hinata flags over the first volleyball pair he sees and challenges them to a match. It was maybe a little over a year ago when he and Kageyama had played beach volleyball in Japan. They’d leveraged their knowledge of indoor volleyball, and done decently enough. It didn’t help the miscalculated cross-court spikes, a hair’s breadth outside the line, or the surprise of the end of a set, a few points shy. This is knowledge Hinata leverages now.

He digs up an attack close to the net, sending it to a prime position for Kageyama's spike.

Kageyama was always good at playing different positions; though, he was probably the happiest setting. So when they’re bound to two players, he reads the situation like he reads the opposition, and doesn’t miss twice. He must’ve grown too, Hinata thinks, playing with different teammates, acquiring new techniques best-suited to each player. There’s a practiced consideration to how Kageyama plays, that they’d just witnessed the beginnings of in Karasuno. 

Better yet, he keys in on Hinata’s play style, which took months to hone, rich now with receives and tosses, a conservative show of force. It doesn’t take long, an old tug and pull, rhythmic beating, the sweat on his brow, and the ball between them, three chances to connect. 

After two more games, they collapse on the sand, where it’s warm from the sun bearing down. Hinata is restless energy, giddy on the high of winning, and it must be contagious because Kageyama is buzzing beside him too. He pulls down the brim of his hat further to shade his eyes, and doesn’t know how much time passes, listening to the crashing of waves and the distant hum of voices. Eventually, he says, “That was fun.”

Kageyama stirs, clothing rustling against grains of sand as he turns to face him. Hinata holds his breath; they’re lying close, except for their limbs between them. The last time they had been this close, Hinata realizes, was around the same time last year—tangled beneath a cotton throw and the air conditioner on blast. And back then, it had been months since the last, last time: the day before Spring Interhigh semifinals, sharing a room and the same bed despite there being two doubles. _I like you,_ he had thought, in the comfort of the dark and his own mind, easing back nerves (whether they were towards playing Itachiyama the next day or something else, he didn't know), _I like you-I like you-I love you-I_ —

“I’ve missed you.”

Hinata turns, startled. Kageyama’s breath is warm on his bare shoulder, lips brushing the skin there in something so achingly familiar it makes his stomach flip. His gaze is forlorn, a little lost, and Hinata can see his own reflection in Kageyama's eyes. He suddenly feels over-exposed in his tank, wanting nothing more than to be far away—from Rio, from Kageyama and the stirring in his chest. 

He sits up quickly, rubbing absentmindedly at his arm—the one Kageyama had been touching earlier—and says, “We should go.” He pointedly does not look in Kageyama’s direction as he rises from the sand. “People are waiting for the net.” 

**+++**

Kageyama leaves on a Thursday afternoon. Hinata works a double shift, participates in a local tournament, and goes for drinks after. 


End file.
